Megalomaniac
by Kakos
Summary: A short one-shot songfic. Ryou writes a letter to his dead sister; Yami Bakura can't have this, and in the process of the letter's destruction, ponders the wonder of death.


**Title**: Megalomaniac

**Author**: Kakos

**Rating**: PG-13, for language

**Disclaimer**: Don't own "Yu-Gi-Oh;" if I did, the show would center around Bakura. Don't own the "Megalomaniac" lyrics, either; that's Incubus, for all you curious people out there. 

**Notes**: This song reminds me of Ryou Bakura and his yami for some reason….Well, a few minor notes. Egyptians did have a sick obsession with the afterlife, right? Just checking…Ryou did have a sister named Amane in the original series (and I think in the manga, but I haven't read that far yet), so that's pretty much canon. So nah :p

**Megalomaniac:** a pathological egotist

He's writing to his sister again. Silly little vessel.

_~I hear you on the radio  
You permeate my screams  
This unkind bird~_

I know it's a letter to his sister. He doesn't have any other people to write to, the pathetic wreck. My Japanese is not so good, but I can make out the familiar Kanji of 'Bakura Amane.' Writing to a dead sibling. 

No one knows this freak of nature like I do; hell, it doesn't get much more personal, what with sharing a body and all. I suppose it's my eternal punishment, to be cursed to rely on the health and well-being of another. Probably a punishment for taking the lives of all those people back in Egypt. But that was the life of a tomb robber, after all, my profession by—well, not choice, exactly. 

But that's life.

He does have a sick affinity for the dead, in a way of speaking. Lots of pictures of his sister and mother around. I guess he's lonely, the little yadonushi. His only company is me, and that can't be too comforting. But so often he wanders in the cemetery, so often he writes letters to these dead people, and I know dead people can't read. At least it explains his damn occultist deck. Not that I'm complaining about it, mind you. An occultist deck, filled with zombies and fiends and magic cards, is my deck of choice, since life seems to revolve around that damn card game anyway.

But I'm in this for more. So much more.

_~If I met you in a scissor fight  
I'd cut off both your wings_  
_On principle alone (principle alone)~_

This should be sweet. What could he be saying to poor dead Amane now? What does one write to a dead child, anyway? 'Oh, dear sister, how I miss you so! How every day aches without you! How I long for your face one last time…'

Keh. Damn yadonushi. Death is a part of life—the last part, of course, but a part nonetheless, and perhaps the most important.

After death there's always another life, a better life. Something where you're free. Sure, some people believe in that heaven and hell shit, and if I understand it correctly, I'm fairly sure I'd be in the hell part. But there's probably just an afterlife. A nice long plane, where you've always got food and company and there's no need to do anything again.

Yet here I am, stuck in this body, and if not the body, then that damned ring. What did they say? 'A fitting punishment for a thief'—keh! Doomed to spend an eternity on this accursed planet in an _object_ is a fitting punishment for no one! It is little consultation that that pharaoh is stuck with his own item; that has no impact on my own suffering. And suffering it is.

I killed people my whole life. Those damn lucky people, now they're free and clear, in their comfortable afterlife, enjoying death. But not me. Death will never come for me.

Yadonushi gnaws on the end of his fountain pen before bursting forth in a few sentences to his beloved dead sister. His lucky dead sister.

Oh, how I wish I'd have killed her. How I wish it was me.

_~Hey megalomaniac—  
You're no Jesus  
Yeah, you're no fucking Elvis  
__Wash your hands clean of yourself, baby  
__And just step down, step down, step down~_

His precious baby sister, that round little face and bright innocent eyes. A tiny, lithe doll's body—his pride and joy, how much that damn yadonushi cherished her. She's a broken toy now, lying in some shallow grave, with a small headstone just fitting for her short life.

How would I have gone about it? How often have I dwelled on this same subject? There is more than one way to skin a cat, as they say; how would I have extinguished this guiding fire in my host's life?

I decided long ago the best way would've been to choke her. To wrap the yadonushi's hands around her thin little neck and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Those innocent eyes would bulge, that little tongue would roll about her lips and mouth. She'd squirm and writhe, an animal fighting for one last breath. Little hands clutching at my iron wrists—but you won't get out, baby doll, you can't get out. And she'd choke, choke, choke.

But the icing, as they say, the coup de grace, would be letting my pathetic yadonushi back in control at the breaking point, that moment of no return. What would he see? His own hands clutched about his sister's neck, her eyes rolled back in her head and her cheeks a pale, pale blue. And he'd drop her immediately, then cradle her limp body, sobbing, I can only hope he's sobbing, as he thinks that by his own bare hands he killed her, he took her life from her…

And only then would he truly understand the difference of life and death. 

~If I were your appendages  
I'd hold open your eyes  
So you would see  
That all of us are heaven sent  
And there was never meant to be only one~

I cannot stand this letter anymore.

It's a simple matter of will to take control—but I like the panic factor involved. I'll just do his hand—ah, yes, just his hand.

Idle hands are the devil's playthings, after all. Even ones that are busy scribbling letters to dead sisters.

His heart races as he realizes his hand isn't responding. He knows the drill; this has happened before. But I know it is most terrifying when I let him keep his mind, let him realize and comprehend what's going on around him. It's the fact that he'll know he's helpless that's so titillating.

Silly yadonushi. Having an open flame on his desk.

The paper is a crispy yellow, that kind of old timey parchment. Why people pay money for old paper, I'll never understand. But perhaps my point is, the only thing more flammable than this piece of paper would be the candlewick itself.

Burn, baby, burn.

I love the smell of the ashes, that woody scent. Choking black smoke. His heart pounds harder, and he's trying to talk—

"Please, koe, don't, don't, my letter…"

Don't be stupid. It's not like she would get it anyway.__

_~Hey megalomaniac—  
You're no Jesus  
Yeah, you're no fucking Elvis  
Wash your hands clean of yourself, baby  
And step down, step down, step down~_

I let his hand go, simply out of boredom. The ashes flutter down upon the desk and carpeting like dark rain; the scent of charred paper permeates the room. What a grand smell, that of burnt parchment.

The yadonushi puts his head down on the desk and sobs, leaving his hand absolutely still, like he doesn't trust it anymore. He shouldn't, really, for on my command, the thing will turn on him again. It's just that simple.

What's he crying for? It bothers me. Crying because his sister is dead? Crying because he's so possessed? Crying over the destruction of a simple letter? He wishes for death—I get that thought often. That it was over, all over, that he be free and clear just like all those other people, all those lucky people in their cold mausoleums, those sepulchers on a dark horizon, those little shallow plots along the side of the road. He wants it to all end, how many time has he tried to do so? But I won't let him. Oh, no, why should he be the lucky one? Why should he get all the glory?

I can't have death, yadonushi. Thing about being the shadows and all that—the darkness is always there. It never dies. I never die.

So you won't either.

_~Step down  
__Step down  
Step down~  
  
_


End file.
